Not Thinking Right
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: aftermath of the bipolar thing...and ashley visits craig in the hospital


The drugs they gave me made me feel sleepy, and kind of hung over. But I remembered everything. Hitting Joey. Embarrassing Ashley. Buying all those things with Joey's credit card. Trashing the hotel room. Each thing, it was like I couldn't stop. I could see myself doing it but I had no control over doing it. I couldn't stop.

I can't believe I hit Joey like that. Joey. He took me in, he was there when no one else was. He, you know, he helped me with all that shit from my father. And I treat him like that? What was wrong with me?

They're telling me I'm mentally ill. I have a mental illness-bipolar. Just because some fucked up aspect of your personality has a label that doesn't make it easier, or better. Maybe people will think it's okay because I have bipolar. Maybe now I'm not as responsible for how I behave as everyone else. I couldn't help it.

This hospital isn't like, it's not the section where regular sick people go. This is the nut floor. The mental health unit. That's kind of funny, the name, because everyone here doesn't have mental health. We're sick. And it's locked up. If you're on this floor you can't just leave like someone who had a heart attack or kidney stones or something. It's like a prison.

Joey visits me, he looks all worried and sad and not all mad that I beat him up. I'm so sorry. When he first came to visit I couldn't even look at him, sort of stammered it out, trying not to cry.

"Joey, I'm, uh, I'm sorry," I said, and looked at him quick. He nodded, and hugged me even though I don't like being hugged. I don't like being touched, really, unless it's a girl. But I let him hug me because I was sorry about what I'd done, and I kind of hugged him back, and then he let me go.

"It's okay, Craig, you just…you just have to get better,"

Nice. Get better. I've been fucked up for a long time. Emotionally fucked up, I guess. My mom leaving us, then frigging _dying_, then my dad beating the shit out of me. Then he died. So I tried to run away and kill myself and now this, this. Would a couple of pills a day fix this?

I'd take the pills even though they made me feel…fuzzy. Off-balance. I hated it here. Hospital bracelet on my wrist. Nurses taking my blood pressure, making me feel sick. Sicker. Listening to my lungs. I didn't like this observation. Then there was the talking to psychiatrists and stuff, telling them what's been going on and how I've been feeling and seeing them look sort of bored with this shit they've seen a million times before.

Then there was Ashley. I freaked her out. Maybe she'd take off, leave. I couldn't blame her. I fucked up, I know I did. Now I was crazy on top of it. I was all caught up in Ashley, I wanted to see her, couldn't stop thinking about her. But I wasn't going to even call her because, well, I don't know. I'm scared of what her reaction will be. I'm scared of her rejecting me.

Rejection. That's the thing of my life. My mother rejected me. Well, I guess it was really my dad, but it didn't feel like it was just him because I was there, too. Then my dad, that whole thing before I moved in with Joey. I could never be good enough. And I beat up Joey in front of Angie and she probably hates me.

This bipolar thing, this sucks. I've been reading about it. Mood disorder. High risk of suicide. So does that explain the train? Did I do that because I was bipolar or because my fucking dad would hit me all the time? High risk of substance abuse. That's good. That's something to look forward to. What substance, huh? Any one of my choosing? Maybe alcohol, or maybe heroin. Who fucking knows? And then of course the pills used to treat it completely screw up the kidneys.

I was bored here, too. Everyone was busy all day, meaning Joey and Angela and Caitlin. Ashley has yet to come and visit, and I told Joey not to tell anyone else where I am. I don't want to visit with Marco or Spinner here. Maybe Sean. It would be okay to see Sean, but I won't since Joey won't tell him, either.

So the pills they give me are mood stabilizers and ones that help with sleep, which I haven't been doing much of. I can't sleep, but I guess my thoughts have slowed down. I don't feel the surge of energy anymore.

I want to go home. I don't like it here. I feel like such a…I don't know. A mental cripple or something. Not thinking right, not acting right. Ashley will probably never forgive me. I don't know why Joey has. I was just as awful to him as my dad was to me.

"Craig?" Standing in the doorway to my room, Ashley. Ashley. I sat up, my breath caught. I didn't think she'd come.

"Ash,"

She was dressed in jeans and a punk rock tee shirt and I had on flannel pajama pants and a tee shirt. Like I was sick, you know? I wasn't even dressed.

"You came," I said, and it reminded me of what I said to her when she came over while I was freaking out on Joey. Everything was much calmer now. She smiled at me, a sad sort of smile. Maybe she was gonna dump me. Too crazy. I couldn't blame her. Not at all.

She sat down next to me on the bed, and I could tell by how close she sat to me that she wasn't going to dump me. I rested my head on her shoulder, and she put her arm around me. For the first time in days I felt okay.


End file.
